by Annie Groves
Tilly smiled at Dulcie as the latter stretched out her newly plaster-free leg.
‘It must be a relief to have finally got rid of that plaster cast at long last,’ Tilly commented affectionately.
Dulcie nodded, her blond hair reflecting the light thrown back from the pretty yellow daisy-patterned wallpaper and the room’s buttercup-yellow curtains.
Dulcie loved her bedroom at number 13, although her instinctive defensiveness would never have allowed her to say as much to anyone, much less to her landlady, Olive, who was responsible for her bedroom’s fresh sunny decor.
Not that Dulcie hadn’t added her own touches to the room, she had, mainly via the addition of some carefully chosen samples from Selfridges perfume and cosmetics counters. On the glass-topped kidney-shaped dressing table, Dulcie had arranged an assortment of elegant-looking glass perfume bottles, the loose ends of their pastel-coloured silk-thread-covered puffers spread out artistically on the polished glass surface, the whole arrangement reflected in the dressing table mirror. There was also a lipstick and compact set in shiny ‘gold’, set with pretend rubies, and a large box of face powder complete with a pale pink swansdown powder puff. On the back of the bedroom door Dulcie’s winter siren suit hug from the coat peg, along with her gas mask box in its bright pink silk cover.
Now, as she always did whenever she was in her room, Dulcie couldn’t resist giving it a quick look of pride and satisfaction – her dressing table looked much more expensive than anything any of the other girls had – before she added, ‘it’s nearly as much of a relief as the Germans not bombing us during the daytime any more.’
‘Mrs Windle told Mum that that’s because our RAF have shot down so many of their planes during their daytime raids,’ Tilly informed Dulcie knowledgeably, adding, ‘And I’ll tell you something else as well. No one runs any more when the siren goes off like we used to when we first heard it.’
‘Well, they should do,’ Olive said as she came upstairs just in time to hear what Tilly was saying, ‘especially now that the authorities have worked so hard to improve conditions in the shelters.’
An awful lot had been done since the early days of the Blitz in September, weeks ago now, when all those who worked in the voluntary services had seen how poorly equipped the city was both to provide for its homeless, and to tackle the devastation left behind by the bombs.
Now, most shelters had adequate sanitation facilities, there were permanent bunks in many of the underground shelters, special areas had been set aside as children’s play areas, and more wardens had been recruited to ensure that life in the shelters was conducted in a respectable and orderly manner.
‘Do you know the first thing I want to do now that I’ve got that plaster off at long last?’ Dulcie told them.
‘Have a proper bath.’
‘Go dancing,’ Olive and Tilly spoke in unison, causing Dulcie to laugh.
‘You’re both right, as it happens. How about it, Tilly? How do you feel about us all going to Hammersmith Palais next Saturday night, if your mum says it’s all right?’
Tilly clapped her hands together. Out of sympathy for Dulcie, Tilly and Agnes had put their heads together and agreed that they wouldn’t go dancing without her, and the nearest they had got to having any fun had been an impromptu dance in one of the shelters in which they’d had to take refuge, whilst working with their St John Ambulance group.
‘Well, I don’t mind, just as long as you promise me you’ll make for a shelter at the first sound of a siren,’ Olive warned them.
‘When Drew comes round tomorrow to show you those photographs you were so keen to see, we could ask him to come with us,’ Dulcie suggested.
Drew had had Sunday lunch with them twice since Olive had first invited him, and although Tilly had indicated that she felt no particular interest in him – much to Olive’s relief, as she didn’t want her daughter falling in love at eighteen, especially when there was a war on – it did seem to be Tilly that the young American gravitated towards more than the other girls.
‘I’m really sorry but I won’t be able to come,’ Sally told them when Tilly mentioned their plans to her over their evening meal later.
‘That means that she’s going out with her chap,’ Dulcie told Tilly knowledgeably. Sally smiled good-naturedly. Olive liked George Laidlaw, who Sally had brought home to tea with her one evening at Olive’s invitation. Olive had liked him, especially for the way he hadn’t responded to Dulcie’s energetic attempt to flirt with him, and for his admiration for Sally, which he had made no attempt to conceal. Dulcie hadn’t meant any real harm, she was just the sort of girl who wouldn’t resist showing off her charms, Olive thought ruefully.
Because Sally had confided the sad story of her past to Olive, following the visit of the good-looking naval officer who had called to see her at number 13, and whose sister Olive now knew was married to Sally’s father, Olive knew and understood why Sally never mentioned her home in Liverpool or the people she had loved there, never mind showed any inclination to go back. She did feel, though, that it was very sad that Sally couldn’t be reconciled with her father, but she also knew better than to interfere, knowing that if Sally wanted her advice she would ask her for it.
They had all just settled down to listen to the wireless when there was a knock at the door.
‘I’ll answer it, Mum,’ Tilly offered, getting up to go into the hall, only to return very quickly. ‘It’s Sergeant Dawson. He wants to speak to you.’
Olive got up. Whilst it wouldn’t be true to say that she had been avoiding Sergeant Dawson, following from Nancy’s unkind remarks about him, Olive admitted that she had been determined not to give Nancy any reason to remind her yet again that the sergeant was a married man. It was for that reason and no other that she felt a little flustered as she went into the hall, forcing herself to resist the temptation to look in the mirror that hung there and pat her hair straight. The sergeant was a tall man even without his helmet, which he had removed, the light in the hallway reflecting on the buttons on his uniform and highlighting the distinguished touches of silver in his dark hair.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Olive,’ he told her, ‘You see, there’s something I wanted to have a word with you about, in private, like.’
‘Oh?’ Olive wasn’t sure what to say, and she showed the sergeant into the front room.
‘Yes. You’ll have heard that there’s more air-raid wardens being taken on now?’
Olive nodded.
‘There’s two more going to be needed at our shelter, and I was thinking that maybe you might want to think about applying to become one of them.’
Olive was so completely astonished that she sank down on the sofa. ‘Me, an air-raid warden? But I wouldn’t know what to do.’
‘You’d be trained up properly so you needn’t worry about that. You’ve got the makings of a good warden, I reckon, Olive. I’ve seen the way you deal with those lodgers of yours and the way they listen to what you say. A good warden has to be able to make people listen. This bombing we’ve had already isn’t going to be the end of it, you know, not by a long chalk.’
Olive had to smile. ‘I can’t see Mr Baxter welcoming any woman as a warden in his area,’ she pointed out.
Sergeant Dawson laughed. ‘Old Reg? He’s standing down. Getting a bit past it, and with him losing his brother in a bomb in October, it’s taken the spirit out of him. He’s decided to go and live with his son in Manchester. He reckons it will be safer up there.
‘There’ll be a wage that goes with it,’ he told her.
‘A wage?’ That would certainly make life easier, Olive acknowledged. Not that there was much to spend money on unless you bought on the black market. ‘I don’t think Nancy would approve.’ She hesitated. ‘You know what she’s like, and she won’t think it a suitable occupation for a woman.’
‘No, I dare say she won’t, but you won’t be the only woman on the unit. Mrs Morrison is going to apply, so her husband has told m
e.’
‘She is?’
‘You have a think about it and let me know if you want your name putting forward,’ Sergeant Dawson told her, ‘although these things take time, and I dare say it will be after Christmas now before anything really happens.’
‘Yes. Yes, I will, and thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
He was on the doorstep before Olive could say anything more, his cape swinging from his shoulders as the fog swallowed him up.
Her, an air-raid warden. The girls would laugh when she told them. At least she’d got time to think things through properly if nothing was going to happen until after Christmas.
Christmas! She’d noticed earlier that Sally had been wearing the gloves she had knitted for her the previous Christmas – knitted a pair for each of them, in fact. She’d have to start thinking about Christmas presents for this year soon . . .
An air-raid warden. Her! Nancy wouldn’t approve at all, even if Mrs Morrison was joining as well.
Chapter Eight
‘So what time is your American beau coming round?’ Dulcie asked Tilly as the three of them washed up together, Tilly washing, Dulcie drying and Agnes putting everything away.
‘He said he’d be here about half-past seven, and he isn’t my beau,’ Tilly told Dulcie firmly.
Dulcie knew it was a bit mean of her to tease Tilly but she was on edge because, in the morning, she was going back to work after her time off.
There had been many changes during her absence, she knew. Arlene, her old enemy, might have left but, according to Lizzie, who had faithfully visited Dulcie every week, when you added together the number of girls who had left because their parents considered London too dangerous for them to work there any more, and the number of girls who had decided to go into uniform of one sort or another, some of the sales jobs had had to be filled with much older women. Women who, Lizzie had already warned her, were inclined to be rather old-fashioned and stuffy. Then there was the fact that the store itself had been bomb-damaged during an air raid.
‘It isn’t the place it was,’ Lizzie had told her sadly,
So because she was feeling nervous and didn’t really want to admit it, Dulcie was taking her anxiety out on Tilly by teasing her about her American. A quite good-looking American, too, Dulcie was forced to admit. Not that he was really her type, with his polite ways, though he had won Olive’s approval. Dulcie liked her men to have that certain something added to their good looks, that little dash of danger that sparkled in their eyes. Like it had in David’s?
Dulcie scowled as she dried the last plate. She’d asked Lizzie if there’d been any more news about Lydia’s husband, but since Arlene, a source of this news, had left, Lizzie hadn’t been able to tell her anything. Not that she really wanted to know, of course. Why should she? She could have any man she wanted, and that included Tilly’s American.
‘Aren’t you going to get changed?’ she asked Tilly now. ‘It’s a quarter past and your beau will be here soon.’
‘Why should I want to get changed? It’s November, the bedroom is freezing cold and the few inches of water we’re allowed for a bath isn’t enough to get properly warm in. And I keep telling you, he isn’t my beau.’
‘No, and he never will be if you don’t make a bit of an effort and wear something pretty for him. Men like that.’ Dulcie looked scathingly at Tilly’s neat navy-blue pleated skirt, which she was wearing with a red jumper over which she’d put her apron.
Dulcie herself had, of course, already ‘made an effort’, changing into a rich amber-brown shirt with a sheeny finish to it that toned with her dark brown eyes and blond hair, and a fitted brown tweed skirt, both part of the wardrobe that Dulcie had carefully assembled once she had started working at Selfridges. She had a good eye for style and cut, though she had bristled with fury when Arlene had pointed out the first time she had worn her blouse that it could hardly compare with real silk. After that Dulcie had made sure that her blouses were made of silk, even if that silk had to be seconds, or ‘bargains’ she had found on one or other of London’s many markets.
‘Still, at least you aren’t wearing your siren suit,’ Dulcie mocked Tilly.
‘There’s nothing wrong with a siren suit. I’ve been really glad of it when we’ve had to jump out of bed and go down to the Anderson,’ Tilly defended herself, adding, ‘And Mum worked hard making them for us.’
That was true, and Dulcie knew it.
Olive had got the fabric from a shop that had been closed down after an incendiary bomb set its top floor ablaze. After the fire brigade had soaked all the bales of stored fabric, they had had to be sold off cheaply.
She had made a suit for each of them. Dulcie’s was pink and suited her colouring, Olive’s own was navy blue and Tilly’s was pale blue, whilst Agnes and Sally’s were apple green.
‘That’s the door now,’ Agnes told them both unnecessarily, as they all speedily removed their aprons.
‘You’d better go and let him in then, hadn’t you?’ Dulcie told Tilly. ‘Seeing as it’s you he’s come to see.’
She wasn’t going to let Dulcie get under her skin, Tilly told herself, as she headed for the front door. She knew she was only being awkward because of her leg. Even so, Tilly did feel a bit self-conscious when she went to open the door to Drew. She felt even more self-conscious when he handed her a box of chocolate bars, even though they did make her mouth water with longing, chocolate being rationed.
‘These are for your mom. They’re Hershey bars,’ he told her.
‘Another American tradition?’ Tilly guessed, holding the chocolates in one hand whilst she held out the other to take Drew’s raincoat and hat, which she put on the hat stand.
Nodding, Drew smiled at her, picking up the briefcase he’d put down as he took off his coat.
Each time Drew had come to Sunday lunch he had brought something with him, usually either flowers or fruit, which Olive had complained was far too generous of him until he had explained to her that his gifts had been obtained from American stores shipped in for the use of American personnel based in London, many of whom he knew.
‘Mum isn’t here at the moment but she’ll be back soon,’ Tilly told him, ushering him into the front room. ‘She’s gone to see Mrs Long, a neighbour of ours who lost her husband earlier in the year and now her son’s away so she’s by herself.
‘Gee, that’s sad,’ Drew offered politely.
‘Christopher, her son, enlisted recently. He’s training for bomb disposal duties.’
Drew looked impressed. ‘He must be one brave guy.’
‘He’s not brave at all,’ Dulcie piped up. She had seated herself at the most flattering angle to the fire, perching on the arm of the chair there so that when Drew came into the room his gaze would automatically be drawn to her. It wasn’t that she was particularly interested in him; it was just that it was impossible for her not to be the centre of young, handsome and appreciative male attention.
‘Kit is a conscientious objector,’ Tilly explained as she led Drew towards the comfortable chair next to the fire, facing the one Dulcie was perched on, pretending to check her stockings for an imaginary snag, which involved her arching and pointing her foot in a way that showed off the elegant length of her slim legs.
‘We’re all really looking forward to seeing your photographs,’ Tilly told Drew.
The light from the room’s standard lamp was highlighting the rich brown of Drew’s thick hair, his smile revealing perfect white teeth.
There was something about Drew that was bright and shiny, a something that Tilly wasn’t familiar with in British boys. American girls would have recognised it as a preppy college-boy look.
Once the obligatory cups of tea had been made and drunk, Drew opened his briefcase and removed a sheaf of large shiny black-and-white photographs, handing them first to Tilly, who was sitting closest to him on the sofa with Agnes at her other side.
‘I took these early on in the first wave of bo
mbings,’ Drew explained, leaning across to her. ‘See how in this one there’s all the hoses from the fire engines? What caught my eye wasn’t so much the bombs falling, although that was dramatic enough, but this young kid here.’
‘A boy messenger,’ Tilly explained. ‘The ARP and the fire service use them to get messages across London when the phone lines are down.’
Drew nodded. ‘Yes. A kid thirteen or fourteen, no more, and yet he’s playing an active role in a war. Back home in America, folks see these photographs and they can’t always take it all in. Here’s another. See how this doll is lying in the street, its arm and leg missing, and the little girl is bending over it?’
And not far from the little girl the photograph showed a woman’s leg, complete with a high-heeled shoe, nothing more, just the leg and the shoe visible beneath a collapsed building. Looking at the photograph brought a lump to Tilly’s throat. She ached to know if the woman buried beneath the rubble was the little girl’s mother, if the little girl knew, if the woman was saved . . .
‘My father writes me that war is about the big picture, but I guess I’m kinda drawn to the small picture.’ Drew gave Tilly a self-depreciatory smile and shrugged. ‘Of course, I write a piece to accompany the photographs that tells the whole story about what’s happening, but I guess I get kinda distracted by what I see. I go out most nights and most days when the all clear’s gone, just walking round London, watching folk.’
Olive’s return and the presentation of the box of Hershey bars called for a fresh pot of tea and one of the chocolate bars was cut up into thin slivers so that everyone could have a taste.
‘Kids back home grow up on Hershey bars,’ Drew explained. ‘They’re an American tradition.’
